RUNNING BACK

Chapter 7: And The Crap Storm Rages On

Later that night, I'm putting my football gear in the washing machine, and my mom comes in and leans against the doorframe.

"Peyton, those are black. You have to wash them with other darks." She moves me aside and starts picking out the light-colored clothes. "You can't leave the pads in the pants. You have to remove them and wash them in bleach."

I helplessly stand aside. "Oh, I didn't know that."

"Yes, one year your brother got a nasty staph infection because he kept forgetting to bring me his pads so I could disinfect them."

"That's okay. I probably won't need them anyway," I mutter.

"If those coaches won't let you on that team, you're probably better off. But in case they do, you should wash the black stuff in warm, short cycle. The pads and whites go in hot, with bleach. Two loads." Then she kisses me on my stupid bald head. "Goodnight, I'm tired. I'm going to bed," she adds before she leaves me alone with the rest of my stinky laundry.

"Goodnight."

It's only nine o'clock, but I'm used to her early bedtime. She has a lot of trouble sleeping, even with the pills her doctor prescribed. She's usually awake for the day by four in the morning, a habit she formed when we lived in Woodland Heights. She had to get up that early to make the hour drive to Sam Houston State University in Huntsville where she's a professor of dance. Her commute has been shortened now that we live in Blue Lake, but the habit remains.

Part of me thinks she likes to get out of here, to escape the swirling emotional chaos of this family to the order and solace of choreography and music.

Not that she's neglecting us, exactly. It's not that. I think it's her way of coping, of numbing herself.

I know how she feels. It's hard when the people you love suffer. And the pain in this house is palpable, especially when it comes to my dad.

Dad is the opposite of Mom. He barely sleeps at all. Usually he stays up way past midnight. Sometimes I find him in his office at his computer as late as two or three in the morning.

Drinking.

*****

The next morning, I get suited up in freshly laundered, lavender-scented practice pants, jog bra (not that I need it), compression shirt, and socks. I carry my shoulder pads and helmet to the Explorer and drink a Gatorade while I wait for Miss Priss to get her ass in gear. Gloomily, she wrenches open the passenger side door, and gets in with a huff, giant blue bow and over-sized shades slightly askew, a giant travel mug in hand.

"What's the matter now, Powder Puff?"

She glares at me over her enormous sunglasses. "It's my hair. I can't get my bow to stay straight."

"Well don't look at me. I'm not gifted in that area." I start the car and back out, eyeing her pouty profile. "It's no wonder you're having trouble. That bow keeps getting bigger every day. I'm amazed you can hold that tiny little head of yours upright with that helicopter hovering up there."

"Thanks, that's a huge help."

I drive with the windows down, which aggravates Emma to no end. "I'm having a hard enough time with my hair already. Please roll up the windows."

"Sorry. Can't do it, Meatball. My AC is on the fritz."

"This car is a piece of crap. When I get my driver's license, Mom and Dad are going to get me a car that was actually made in this millennium."

"Good luck to you. But I'm pretty sure you'll be inheriting old Dora."

Dora is what we call my 1999 Ford Explorer. She has over a hundred thousand miles and a handful of fender benders under her belt. She was my dad's car. A hand-me-down. There's probably still melted Crayons, dried fries, and stale goldfish under the seats from when we were little kids.